The sound of lyres, the flower-crown’d goblet’s flow.
—Behold again!—high hearts make nobler offerings now!
LXXI.
The stately fane is reach’d—and at its gate
The warriors pause. On life’s tumultuous tide
A stillness falls, while he whom regal state
Hath mark’d from all, to be more sternly tried
By suffering, speaks: each ruder voice hath died,
While his implores forgiveness!—“If there be
One midst your throngs, my people! whom, in pride